‘Fixed your rifle, Alfred?’ Lock said.
‘Pumped ship in it, sir,’ the young rifleman smiled wryly. ‘That soon shifted the grit. Stinks to high heaven now, though!’
Lock picked up his field glasses. ‘Oh, bollocks.’ They were torn open and a six-inch piece of iron shrapnel was sticking out of the left-hand eyepiece. He tossed them aside. ‘Alfred, how many men would you say are over there, in the section of trench we’re facing?’
Elsworth squinted through his scope, sweeping his rifle slowly across the Turk line. ‘I’d say …’ He squeezed the trigger. ‘No … now I’d say … twenty, maybe a few more … I don’t know … hard to tell … It’s not straight, though. The trench, I mean.’ He threw the bolt and loaded another cartridge into the chamber.
‘Probably a dry river bed, or gully,’ Lock said. ‘According to my map this entire area is riddled with them.’ Lock studied the Turk line and rubbed his stubbly chin thoughtfully. ‘That section there, to the right … hidden by the bracken … Is that where the machine gun is?’
‘Yes, sir, that’s the spot. But I think there are two of them there. I can make out at least seven men around and about them. No clear shot, though.’
‘Well, stay here and keep your sights focused on that. Keep their heads down. The rest of us … we’re going for a little walk.’
Elsworth nodded. He opened his mouth to ask where, but Lock turned away pulling Underhill and Singh to one side.
‘How long ’til sunset?’
Underhill shrugged. ‘Three hours … maybe. I think we should scarper, sah, before it gets dark. Johnny’ll sneak up on us if we’re not—’
‘The trees,’ Lock said, indicating over to the Turk position and ignoring Underhill. ‘They’re rather high, aren’t they? So this whole clearing will be thrown into shadow earlier when the sun drops below the treeline to the west.’
Underhill scowled. ‘Maybe.’
Lock raised an eyebrow to Singh.
‘It is possible. Yes, sahib,’ he said.
‘Right, well, listen,’ Lock lowered his voice, ‘we can’t just sit here. It’s pointless.’
‘Can’t argue with that, sah,’ Underhill said. ‘Lets get go—’
‘We’re taking a right beating,’ Lock said. ‘One more barrage like that and you’ll be able to put what’s left of us in a matchbox. We need to press on.’ Underhill was shaking his head in disagreement. ‘Unless we can get our own artillery up here, that is,’ Lock continued. ‘But Christ knows how long that would take. We need to capture that wadi and those machine-gun nests and force those bloody Johnny howitzers to turn tail and run!’
Singh nodded grimly. ‘I agree, sahib, but what can we do? We are pinned down here and there is very little ammunition left.’
‘True, but I reckon that the Turks are as short on ammo as we are, especially artillery shells. Why stop that bombardment? Remember, they were on the run after we pushed them back from Shaiba, and we’ve seen tons of abandoned Turk equipment from there to here already.’
‘What are you sayin’, sah?’ Underhill frowned.
‘Look, we can sit it out and be pounded to oblivion while we wait for the rest of the bloody army to catch up, or we press on. Retreat is not an option. But we need to make a move before the next barrage. So, what I’m saying is, let’s charge their positions …’ Underhill gave an incredulous snort, but Lock ignored him still. ‘We wait until the sun falls below the trees. If I’m right, the Turks are just as rattled as we are, only they’re spread out fairly thin and they know it’s only a matter of time before we break through in numbers. I believe if we push them, they’ll panic. And under cover of darkness, they won’t know how many there are of us.’
Underhill grimaced. ‘It’s not enough. What about those machine guns?’
‘They’ll be taken care of by Elsworth and a selected bunch of sharpshooters. We’ll give them enough ammo to continually pick the Turks off. We line up a few more crack shots along the trees here to keep any Johnny head, trench periscope, whatever, down. A continuous fire. Then, as soon as it’s dusk, we leave the trees.’
Underhill shook his head. ‘I dunno …’
‘Sid?’ Lock said.
Singh studied Lock’s face. ‘Yes, sahib, we can do it. The artillery spotters will hopefully be unable to see our movement in the dusk. But we need something loud to put the frighteners up them, sahib, something more than just sniper fire.’
‘Bah, bloody stupid idea,’ Underhill spat.
Lock slapped Singh’s arm. ‘No, Sergeant Major, Sid’s right, and I have just the thing in mind. Elsworth?’ he called back. ‘Stay put and don’t let those buggers get any rest! Ram Lal, you come with us!’
Elsworth raised his hand in salute and, returning his attention to the Turks, began to nervously whistle a few bars from ‘I Don’t Want to be a Soldier’ again.
Lock rubbed his hands together and grinned at Underhill and Singh. ‘Right, we’ve got some jam tins to find!’
Lock and Singh were sitting on a burnt-out tree trunk with a pile of pitted and battered jam tin grenades spread out before them. ‘Not very good, is it, Sid? Can’t do much with twelve of the buggers.’
‘It does appear as if Ram Lal has had better luck, sahib.’
Lock could see that Ram Lal and a grubby, stocky British corporal were approaching. ‘What have we here? Funny looking jam tin,’ he said.
Ram Lal saluted, as did the corporal.
‘Sir. Corporal Pritchard, sir. Didn’t quite understand your man here so I came myself.’
‘We need jam tins, Corporal. Nothing to understand. Do you have any?’ Lock was rather curt.
Pritchard stared at Lock.
‘Well?’ Lock snapped.
‘Oh … sorry, sir … Here …’ He slipped the sackcloth bag off his shoulder and handed it over. ‘Eight. Made them myself, with my pal Freddie, sir. He’s dead now, though. Caught one in the chest.’
‘Excellent! Sid.’ Lock beamed at Pritchard and handed the bag to Singh.
Pritchard was now staring at the bullet hole above Lock’s left breast. ‘Er … proper bombs they are, sir,’ he said, as Singh knelt down and began to sort through them, examining each one carefully. ‘Packed with gun cotton and nails.’
‘What is the fuse, Corporal?’ Singh said.
‘Two seconds.’
‘You sure?’ Lock said.
‘Yes, sir. Tested them, I did.’
‘Because I don’t want one going off in my hand.’ Lock looked the corporal up and down as if sizing up his honesty. He was little older than Lock and held himself proudly. His face and hands were tanned, lined and scarred with experience. He looked like a reliable enough fellow.
‘What company are you with, Corporal?’ Lock said. ‘Alpha?’
‘Yes, sir. But we’re scattered pretty thin. That nasty bit of shelling earlier … lost contact with the whole bunch. Been waiting for word from Sergeant Pike. Have you seen the sarge, sir?’
Lock glanced at Singh. ‘I’m sorry, Corporal. He bought it, along with Major Hall.’
Pritchard’s face dropped.
‘Have you any idea how many men you have left … in Alpha Company?’
Pritchard was silent.
‘Corporal!’ Lock barked.
Pritchard gave a start. ‘Sir … I … No, sir, I don’t. Two dozen … thirty at the most … Could be more. As I said, we’re pretty thin now, spread out I mean.’
‘Take Ram Lal here with you,’ Lock said. ‘Round up as many men as you can and meet me back here in twenty minutes. But leave two men, the best shots, about every ten yards or so along our line. Make sure each one has got enough ammo to maintain a steady fire on the Turks.’
Fifteen minutes later, Corporal Pritchard returned with twenty men, all from the Dorsetshires. Singh was sent in the opposite direction and he managed to round up thirteen more, all sepoys from the 24th Punjabis, along with a jemadar, an Indian second lieutenant.
‘Do you realis
e that you’re the most senior man any of us have seen since the charge led by Colonel Chitty?’ Lock said.
‘And you for me, Lieutenant sahib,’ the Indian officer said, forcing a strained smile. ‘Jemadar Pahal at your service. I am sorry we are not more. But we are ready for any do.’
‘Excellent. Now …’ Lock paused. Sergeant Major Underhill was making his way towards him. He looked mean and pissed off, more so than usual.
‘Well?’ Lock said, as Underhill came over.
‘Waste of bloody time, if you ask me.’
‘I didn’t ask you that.’
Underhill shot him a black look, then composed himself. ‘Three sniper rifles, two good shooters. I placed ’em like you said, along the line either side of Elsworth. But—’
‘Good, let’s get down to business, then.’ Lock got down on one knee, and with Pahal, Underhill, Singh and Pritchard standing over him, he began to scratch his plan in the dirt with a stick.
‘We’ll split into four squads of …’ Lock looked to Singh for clarification of the arithmetic.
‘There are forty-four men, sahib, including us,’ the Indian stated helpfully.
‘Good … so four squads of … eleven. Singh, you’re with me. Pritchard, you’re a sergeant now.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Pritchard said, his chest puffing up proudly.
‘Jemadar Pahal and you, Sergeant Major,’ Lock said. ‘Each of us gets five jam tins. Sorry it’s not more. Now, the trench immediately in front of us seems to be a kind of wavy line, so it’s probably a reinforced old wadi, a dried river bed. Directly opposite our position it’s rather like a bend in a river.
‘Our three shooters will take care of the machine gun and any inquisitive Johnnies. Fingers crossed those howitzers remain silent. As soon as the sun drops below the treeline, the clearing between our two positions will be plunged into shadow. All four squads will move out simultaneously. We’ll be about fifteen yards apart with a sharpshooter between us and on either side. Each squad will advance in an arrowhead formation, one man at the tip of a triangle of two, then four, followed by two and two.
‘The man with the jam tins will be in the row of four, shielded by the tip. He and the man next to him will have lit cigarettes. Remember, keep them cupped in your hand. These will be used to light the fuses. Got it? The man on the left will carry, light and pass the bombs to the man to his right, who will throw. Everybody else will have rifles set, bayonets fixed. But hold your fire. Move quickly, quietly, but fast. I’ll throw the first bomb from about thirty yards.
‘These tins …’ Lock glanced at Pritchard, ‘I’m reliably informed have a two-second fuse. A good strong throw from fifty paces should do it. But count. Timing is essential. We want mayhem in that trench; confusion, smoke and agony to hit the bastards. Light them and throw. Don’t delay. If the man with the tins goes down, replace him quick.
‘We’ll take that part of the trench, then squeeze out left and right. If the Turks try to get out on our side the lads on the ridge will finish them off.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Once in there, keep your heads down. I just hope our shooters have good eyesight. Wouldn’t want to buy it from a friendly, now.’
Singh handed a sack of jam tins to Underhill, Pritchard and Pahal, and left one for Lock.
‘So remember, wait for the first bomb. When it goes off, charge like hell! But no whistles, no screaming. Just deathly quiet. I want those bastards over there to fear us. I want them soiling their breeches and running from us in blind panic, and hopefully taking those howitzer teams with them!’
The men nodded their understanding.
‘Good,’ Lock said. ‘Let’s go and pick a fight!’
Lock and his men stepped out from the cover of the treeline like an army of ghosts, silent and cautious. As Lock had predicted, the sun had dipped below the treetops behind their right shoulders, throwing the open ground in front into deep shadow. For the entrenched Turks the sky would be yellow above the black silhouettes of the trees and they wouldn’t be able to see anything else. Lock knew this, knew the difficulty of making things out in the twilight, of trying to see when your eyes are still adjusting. But he also knew he and his men wouldn’t have long to get within range so as to throw the jam tin bombs. He prayed that Elsworth and the other marksmen stayed alert and ready. He prayed, too, that the Turks would be tired and unfocused.
Lock moved on, quickening his step, the men around him keeping in the arrowhead formation he had described. With each yard covered Lock counted, counted down in his head, to the moment the attack would begin. To his left he could see the young Indian officer Pahal calmly leading his group forward, and to the right Underhill and his ten-man squad. Pritchard’s squad would be further over still.
Lock hardened his grip on the pitted jam tin in his hand and counted down softly, ‘… eleven, ten, nine …’ He rigorously puffed on his cigarette, encouraging the tip to burn and glow red hot within his cupped palm, then he put the fuse of the jam tin to it. It caught instantly in a fizz of sparks and smoke, and Lock threw the jam tin as hard as he could. It sailed through the air, sizzling like a firecracker. Lock’s heart was in his throat as he watched the bomb pitch then drop just in the bracken before the line of the trees ahead. It exploded in a ball of flame and a deafening thump, thrusting mud and splinters and a mushroom of smoke into the air.
Screams of pain followed, and then Lock was running, running with his men, all in disciplined silence, like wind rushing through a field of barley. Indar passed a second jam tin, fuse already lit, and Lock lobbed it after the first. Now, to his left and right, the other jam tins were being ignited and hurled at the Turks. Single cracks of rifle fire broke out from behind, methodical and deadly. Elsworth and the marksmen had started their covering fire. The air became thick with smoke, as one after the other of the jam tins exploded along the line of the Turkish trench.
Lock was ready to duck down, ready to retreat if need be, but his plan was working. There was no return fire from the Turk lines, and no sooner had the doubt begun to play on his mind, than he was jumping over a wall of split sandbags and down into the enemy trench.
Thick smoke stung his eyes and burnt his lungs. The smell of explosive and cordite and hot metal, as well as burning cloth and worse, roasting flesh, assaulted his senses. He dropped to his knees, Webley at the ready. The trench floor was dry but littered with spent shells, discarded equipment and the dead. Everywhere Lock looked he could see Turkish Mehmetçiks, hideously disfigured, some with their guts spilling out over their tunics, most with their eyes wide with shock, and mouths half open as if pleading for mercy.
Lock turned to his men. ‘Careful now,’ he said. ‘We clear this section. Then up and into the trees!’
An explosion, extremely close, went off to Lock’s right. More smoke and gritty, choking sand billowed out. A muffled cry was suddenly cut short. Lock fired blindly into the smoke. But the shouts and the cries continued.
Lock paused. He could now hear shouts of confusion and panic coming from the trees beyond. He waved his squad on, hurrying to his left, and headed towards the noise of close combat. He stumbled. Something was lying across the floor of the trench. The dust cloud cleared briefly and Lock could see that it was a headless soldier. One of the enemy. Lock looked up at the smoke and saw that they had come to a junction in the trench. Harsh voices and the crack of gunfire came from every direction.
‘Indar, follow me,’ Lock hissed. ‘Singh, take the others down there!’
Lock and Indar carried on forward and Singh and the rest of the squad moved off to the right.
Another explosion jolted Lock, the flash suddenly illuminating the trench a few yards further on. He could make out figures close together, running towards him. A shout from behind made Lock turn, but there was no one there, just more formless smoke.
‘Indar?’
A blood-curdling cry from within the blankness ahead made Lock’s skin crawl. He slowly levelled his Webley and stood his ground. He was alone.
&n
bsp; As he peered into the smoke it swirled and began to thin. The explosions had ceased. Lock could make out two, no three figures heading straight for him. He had no idea whether they were friend or foe. But he didn’t call out; no sound would rise from his throat. As the figures came nearer, Lock’s finger tightened on his trigger. There was a blinding flash and he was blown from his feet.
Lock’s ears were ringing when he came to moments later. He thought he was back at the mound again, just as the building housing the Turk machine guns had been destroyed. He gave a shake of his head, trying to clear the cloud blocking his ears, but there was no sound other than a dull tone that seemed to come from somewhere further up the trench. It was as if he was underwater and a steamboat was passing overhead. Groggily he dragged himself upright again. He steadied himself against the rocky trench wall, and cautiously raised his head. He remembered the approaching figures. He looked about, but they were no longer there. He coughed. The Webley was still in his hand. He snapped it open and stared down into the empty chambers. He was out of cartridges. He shakily passed his bandaged hand over his bare head, and knelt down to fumble on the ground beneath him. His hand passed over a boot, a warm body, a broken rifle butt, and then his slouch hat. He slapped it back on his head and turned to face the dense smoke once more.
The rifle fire was sporadic now and the cries had ceased, but Lock had no idea if they had overrun the Turks or had failed. A noise over his shoulder made him spin round. Standing behind him, enshrouded in smoke like a ghostly apparition, was a Turkish officer. He was swaying unsteadily and staring at the ground. The officer put his hand to his head and pulled it away again, and stared in horror at the blood on his fingers. Lock could see from the markings on the officer’s uniform that he was a captain, a yüzbaşi.
‘Hey!’ Lock called, but the Turk officer didn’t seem to hear him. Lock stepped hesitatingly forward, hand outstretched. ‘Yüzbaşi?’
The Turkish officer was looking at his feet as if he had lost something, then he crouched down and picked up an automatic pistol. He stared at the handgun in his palm as if he was unsure as to what it was. Lock stood motionless and watched, while the nearby crack of gunfire seemed to fade away to nothing. Lock called out again, softer, and this time the Turkish officer heard him. His head snapped up and he slowly rose to his feet.
Kingdom Lock Page 30